


corruption

by asphodehls



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Police, Cop AU, Cop Iwaizumi, Crying, Gunplay, Kidnapping, M/M, No Sex, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Psychological Torture, Sexual Assault, Sexual Violence, Torture, i dont know how to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 20:40:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16920024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asphodehls/pseuds/asphodehls
Summary: “Oikawa isn’t here because he knows anything.”The man lifts the gun and inspects it briefly, running his thumb along the length of it.“He’s here because you do.”He holds the gun to Oikawa’s head, right above his ear, and Iwaizumi shouts wordlessly in panic at the same time Oikawa lets out the sob he’s been keeping behind clenched teeth.





	corruption

**Author's Note:**

> I had the idea for this at 2 AM and I knew if I didn't write it then that I never would, so I wrote straight through til 7 AM and promptly passed out for several hours.
> 
> Also I'm sorry whoops
> 
> Beta'd by the wondeful volleydorkscentral!

The first thought that comes to Iwaizumi when he wakes up is that something is terribly, awfully wrong.

And it’s an understatement.

His head throbs, particularly at his left temple. He can feel blood crusted on his cheek, tight against his skin as he squints in the low light. His hands are restrained in what feels like handcuffs above his head; the metal digs in sharply and his arms ache. He’s on his knees, sitting on his feet, but his legs ache too - everything hurts just a little bit more than it should. There’s the taste of blood in his mouth. And he’s staring down the barrel of a gun only inches from his face.

“Nice of you to join us, Iwaizumi.”

Iwaizumi looks past the gun and into the face of the man holding it. Late twenties - just a little bit older than himself - dark hair, dark eyes, round face. He doesn’t recognise him. But he’s made a lot of enemies, known and unknown to him - it’s a given in his line of work. It’s not surprising he doesn’t know the face of the man who crouches in front of him, pushing the gun into his forehead painfully.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

Iwaizumi can hear someone crying in the background, muffled. He catalogues it, acknowledges there’s someone else here he may have to help - if he can figure out how to get out without a bullet to the face - and meets the man’s eye. “I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

The man shrugs. “Only because I have to.” He pulls the gun away and rests it casually in his lap. “Apparently you’re a troublesome little thing, Iwaizumi. You’re poking around in things you shouldn’t be, and it’s making some people very nervous.”

The man stands, and Iwaizumi takes the moment that he’s not looking at him to assess his surroundings. His eyes have adjusted to the light now - coming from a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Iwaizumi takes in the painted and hastily repainted concrete walls, the shelving units bolted to them, the scattered boxes pushed out of the way. Pipes snake across the wall, including above his head, around one of which his hands are cuffed. _Basement, has to be_. The man looks at him, and Iwaizumi snaps his gaze back immediately.

“If I’m making people nervous, it means I’m doing my job,” he says. The words scratch his throat and his mouth is dry.

The man smiles. It’s not cheerful, but it’s not particularly menacing. It’s just… a smile. Iwaizumi’s not sure if that’s more disconcerting than either of the other options.

“I’ve been asked to give you a message.”

“You could have just called. Written a letter. There are easier ways of communication than kidnapping.”

The man snorts and steps back. “Funny. I appreciate a sense of humour.”

Iwaizumi habitually takes note of his outfit - a grey t-shirt, blue jeans, and boots, all old and stained with something he’s willing to bet is blood.

“It’ll be interesting to see how long you keep it.”

The man walks away from him, towards the other side of the room, and Iwaizumi’s calculating thoughts disappear in a snap.

Handcuffed to a pipe on the opposite wall is Oikawa.

He’s gagged with black tape across his mouth, although it’s peeling at one edge, and he’s looking desperately at Iwaizumi, tugging on the restraints above his head. He’s crying. With how red his eyes are, and the stained marks on his cheeks, and the damp patches on his pyjama shirt, he’s been crying for a while.

Iwaizumi remembers now - waking up in the middle of the night to a noise in the house, grabbing his gun, moving carefully and slowly to the bedroom door to avoid making noise that might wake Oikawa or alert the intruder. He remembers opening the door, a figure in the doorway, and then bursting pain in the side his head.

Standing beside Oikawa, the man rips the tape off, making him wince and turn his head away.

“Tooru, are you hurt?” Iwaizumi asks, more calmly than he feels, because he can’t let Oikawa know he’s panicking - can’t let their captor know, who’s casually leaning against the wall watching them, tapping the gun nonchalantly against his thigh.

Oikawa shakes his head. He looks at Iwaizumi - first out of the corner of his eye, then fully as he turns his head back to face him. His whole body shakes, teeth digging into his bottom lip as he stifles a sob.

“Oikawa’s been such a good boy, haven’t you?” the man says, ruffling the other’s hair. Oikawa flinches away from him. “We’ve had to wait a while for you to wake up, and he’s been beautifully behaved.”

“Tooru has nothing to do with this,” Iwaizumi says, a deep sense of unease swirling in his gut. “Whatever _this_ is. It’s work, Tooru doesn’t know anything about that.”

He says _this_ , but he knows. He’s been keeping what he thought was a covert eye on people he suspected were corrupt. He’s been quietly investigating drug busts, money laundering, human trafficking stings, and a host of other crimes and arrests he knows are being dealt with too quickly, too easily. Evidence goes missing. The clearly guilty party gets away on a technicality. Too many coincidences, and too many of the same people involved.

He knows that’s what _this_ is, but Oikawa doesn’t. He barely tells Oikawa anything about his work, let alone _this_.

Oikawa shouldn’t be here.

“Oikawa isn’t here because he knows anything.” The man lifts the gun and inspects it briefly, running his thumb along the length of it. “He’s here because _you_ do.” He holds the gun to Oikawa’s head, right above his ear, and Iwaizumi shouts wordlessly in panic at the same time Oikawa lets out the sob he’s been keeping behind clenched teeth.

“Stop.” Iwaizumi’s voice drops to grit through clenched teeth. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to get out of this one. The cuffs are tight. The man doesn’t want information. There’s nothing he can give, nothing he can do. The man could pull the trigger any second and there’s _nothing he can do_.

“Hajime.” Oikawa’s pleading voice is wobbly, his eyes tightly closed.

The man crouches beside him and, lowering the gun, grabs Oikawa’s jaw with his free hand and shakes him. “Look at him. Go on,” he says almost gently, encouragingly. “Talk to him.”

Oikawa takes a moment to force his eyes open. Iwaizumi’s heart cracks at the fear burning in his gaze.

“H-Hajime…”

“Tell him how you feel, Oikawa.” The man still hasn’t let go of his jaw, although his hold is loose.

“I-I’m scared, Hajime, I’m really… I’m really scared.” Oikawa coughs, trembling.

“I know, Tooru. You’ll be okay,” Iwaizumi says, and he wants to say _I promise_ but he can’t promise, not in good conscience, so the words die in his throat and more tears slip down Oikawa’s cheeks.

“You’ve been very good, Oikawa,” the man says, dragging Iwaizumi’s attention away for a moment as he shifts onto his knees. “But Iwaizumi needs to learn a lesson. And to punish him, I’m going to have to punish you.”

Before either of them have the chance to react to his statement, he forces Oikawa’s mouth open and presses the gun inside.

Iwaizumi’s screaming before he even realises it. “ _No!_ ”

Oikawa tenses, trying to pull away, a high pitched cry escaping around the barrel of the gun. He kicks his legs out, yanks at the cuffs, screws his eyes shut, desperately tries to pull away. But he can’t, and Iwaizumi can’t get to him, but he fights because there’s nothing else he can do.

The man doesn’t pull the trigger. Instead, he holds the gun steady, stroking Oikawa’s jaw with his other hand.

“Now, come on, Oikawa,” he says, as if he’s parenting a petulant child. “I know you’re very good at this. I’ve had to watch you two for a while, waiting for the right opportunity. I know _just_ how good you are with your mouth.” He tosses a wink at Iwaizumi. “Am I right? You seem to enjoy it quite a lot.”

Iwaizumi’s stomach drops at the thought of it. Of being stalked, for god knew how long. Of this man seeing them during such intimate moments. He rises up on his knees, pulls hard against the cuffs, but they do nothing except bite at his wrists. He sinks back down, taut and ready to snap.

The man smiles, that same smile as before, and returns his attention to Oikawa. “You’re going to put on a good show for Iwa-chan, aren’t you? Show him what a good boy you are. You like that, don’t you? Being told you’re a good boy?”

Oikawa shudders, tries to pull away again.

The man sighs. “Come on, Oikawa. I don’t want to have to hurt you. But if you don’t do as you’re told, that’s Plan B.”

Oikawa’s jaw is locked tight, unmoving.

Iwaizumi rocks against the cuffs. “Leave him alone,” he says, doing his best to keep his voice level. “You’ve scared him enough, just let him go.”

“Oikawa,” the man warns, as if Iwaizumi hadn’t spoken.

It takes a moment, but shakily, Oikawa tips his head back a little, and his tongue peeks out around the barrel. The man laughs, pleased. “That’s it,” he praises, and lets go of his jaw.

He lets Oikawa mouth around the gun, watching with interest as Oikawa trembles, tears falling more heavily than before. Iwaizumi grits his teeth and looks away. He can at least spare Oikawa the indignity of an audience.

“You’d better be watching,” the man says without taking his eyes off Oikawa. “You won’t like the consequences if you aren’t.”

Iwaizumi makes himself look back, look into Oikawa’s eyes. They’re mostly closed, but whenever he opens them, he meets the other’s gaze with terror swimming in his tears.

“Isn’t he doing well?” The man throws a glance Iwaizumi’s way. “Tell him.”

“Yes.” The word is hard to get out.

The man frowns. “You’re normally a lot more forthcoming with your praise, Iwaizumi. _Tell him_.”

Iwaizumi sucks in a few breaths, does his best to calm his raging heartbeat. He doesn’t like what this man knows about him, about Oikawa, about _them_. Carefully, in a measured voice, he says, “You’re doing such a good job, Tooru. You’re taking it so well.”

Oikawa whines, shakes his head almost imperceptibly. Spit drips thickly down his chin as he licks the barrel in a crude imitation. He tries to swallow some of it down, but the gun doesn’t make it easy.

Without warning, the man slides the gun further into his mouth. Iwaizumi watches Oikawa’s jaw work around it, until it hits the back of his throat. Oikawa’s never had problems taking Iwaizumi, but the gun is not the same, and he chokes.

The man pulls the gun back, slipping it from his mouth, and lets Oikawa cough and splutter, heaving in breaths as spit cools on his chin. As soon as he’s mostly recovered, the man shoots Iwaizumi a pointed look.

He swallows hard. “Good boy, Tooru. Take it again.”

Oikawa shakes his head, and doesn’t stop until the man grabs his hair and yanks his head back. Fearful and low, he moans, “Hajime, please, I don’t…” before the gun is forced back between his teeth.

“You’re being so good.” It takes everything he has to stop himself from breaking his wrists against the restraints, to keep biting words out. “Tooru, you’re so good for me.”

Oikawa whimpers. His head bobs, half-guided by the hand in his hair, the gun sliding in and out of his mouth. His heels scrape along the floor, kicking with no purpose except to escape something he knows he can’t escape.

“I know you can make more noise than that.” The man tightens his grip on the other’s hair. “Make sure Iwa-chan knows how much you appreciate his praise.”

Oikawa hiccups out a sob. His hands make fists, curling and uncurling.

“Good boy, Tooru. Let me hear you.” Iwaizumi feels dirty - he can’t imagine how Oikawa feels.

The long, low moan Oikawa gives him hits him square in the chest, banging around against his ribs. He’s trying, he’s trying _so hard_ to do as he’s told, to make this nightmare end as quickly as possible, but there’s pain and fear in the echo of it, and Iwaizumi grinds his teeth so hard his jaw aches.

He imagines Oikawa’s jaw aches too.

“Fuck,” the man says softly, impressed. “This is nearly getting me off. I feel like I should be filming this or something.”

He doesn’t let up. In and out, tilting the gun slightly so that with every other downstroke it _just_ hits the back of his throat and Oikawa tenses. He lets go of his hair and taps his cheek. “Look at Iwaizumi. Show him how much you’re enjoying this.”

Oikawa cracks his eyes open. Iwaizumi’s fingernails are cutting into his palms. He stares, prays Oikawa can understand what he’s silently trying to tell him - that everything’s going to be alright. That even if he’s not sure how he’s going to manage it, he’s going to get them out of this.

Oikawa whimpers around the gun, hollowing his cheeks, taking it as far back as he can. He closes his eyes again as the man sighs contentedly.

“I understand why you keep him around. I’m going to be thinking about this for _weeks_ ,” he says, half to himself.

Iwaizumi growls low under his breath. The idea of someone, _anyone_ , thinking about Oikawa like this is abhorrent, and every fibre of his being wants to snap the man’s neck.

“He looks so fucking _good_ with something in his mouth. Especially crying like this.” He rubs a thumb over Oikawa’s damp cheek. “You’re such a pretty crier,” he says softly. And then, in a stronger, reassuring tone: “You’re taking this like a champ. You were made for it, weren’t you? Made to please. What a good boy. Right, Iwa-chan?"

Iwaizumi wants to tear his spine out. “Such a good boy,” he says instead.

The man barks out a laugh. “I think we’re almost done here. Finish off, Oikawa.”

The relief that rolls off Oikawa is palpable. He sucks with renewed vigour, licking around the tip of the barrel when it’s pulled from his mouth, relaxing his jaw as much as possible when it slides back in, slick and shiny with spit. It’s hard to watch; Iwaizumi wants so desperately to close his eyes and pretend that none of this is happening. But he doesn’t know what will happen if he does – only that it won’t be good. There’s no way he’ll make Oikawa suffer anymore than he already has. So instead, he focuses his attention on the gun, on the way the man’s hand wraps around the grip. It’s only because he’s watching so intently that he notices the twitch of his finger, the tension in his wrist and forearm.

In the split second it takes for him to process what that means, the man pulls the trigger.

He screams, right at the same time as Oikawa cries out in terror. It’s louder than the gunshot would have been. When he realises, Iwaizumi slumps, staring in shock as the man pulls the gun - _unloaded, it was unloaded this whole time_ \- from Oikawa’s mouth. Oikawa turns his head away as soon as he’s released, sobbing hard, high-pitched cries escaping with every breath, almost screaming but not quite.

Casually, the man wipes off the gun on Oikawa’s shirt before tucking it into the back of his jeans. He saunters over to Iwaizumi and grabs his chin, forces his head back to look him in the eyes.

“This is the message I was asked to deliver,” he says. “You’re a good cop, Iwaizumi. But a nosey one. Nosey cops don’t live very long, and neither do the people they care about.”

He digs into his pocket and pulls out some pills, nondescript and round. He wrenches Iwaizumi’s jaw open just enough and forces the pills between his teeth. Iwaizumi fights it, snapping at the heavy hand that clamps over his mouth, but it’s a pointless battle. Eventually he has no choice but to swallow them, leaving a bitter taste in the back of his throat. Without another word, the man walks away and disappears somewhere behind Iwaizumi. A door opens, and then closes - as soon as Iwaizumi hears the lock click shut, he looks back to Oikawa and pulls hard against the cuffs.

“Tooru, Tooru, hey, I’m here, you’re okay.”

“Ha...Haji...” Oikawa cries, still breathing heavily, voice still pitched high. His eyes are closed and he’s turned away from him as his whole body shakes violently. His voice breaks on every syllable he tries to say and in the end he stops trying, giving up in favour of a long, exhausted, anguished cry. The sound settles in Iwaizumi’s stomach like wet cement.

“Tooru, look at me. Look at me, baby.”

For a long minute, Iwaizumi’s afraid he’s going to hyperventilate, but then Oikawa lifts his head and does as he’s told. His face is wet and shiny, both with tears and spit, his cheeks and lips and eyes red.

“Tooru, I’m so sorry, baby. You’re okay now. You’re gonna be okay.”

“I wa-wanna go... _home_ , Hajime, get… get me out of here, _please…”_

“That’s the plan. You just gotta hold on, okay?”

He looks up at the pipe his hands are cuffed around, searching for any kind of weakness he can exploit. But the pipe is set well into the wall, with no sign of any loose joints or rust. He grabs it and shakes it anyway, uselessly. The handcuffs have left scratches in the metal, bright and shiny, and there are other scratches along the pipe’s length too - older, duller ones. Iwaizumi doesn’t want to think about what that means. His heart thuds against his ribs. He doesn’t know what drugs were just jammed down his throat, or what they’re going to do, but he has to work under the assumption that he doesn’t have a lot of time before they take effect.

He’s painfully right. As he grabs at the pipe again, the strength in his fingers fails him. His hands slip away, and he stares in confusion, his vision starting to blur at the edges. He looks to Oikawa, and Oikawa says something, but somehow Iwaizumi can’t hear it properly, all sound and no words. He frowns, shakes his head. His eyelids are suddenly far too heavy, and when he tries to speak he can’t tell if the words are coming out right.

He slumps back against the wall, fighting the sleepiness that overtakes him. _I have to get Tooru out of here_. Behind him he hears a sharp click, senses movement, and although the figure that moves towards Oikawa is blurry, he knows the man has returned. He’s holding something in each hand - one of them is the gun, and the other is small and boxy and silver-black. He can’t make out specifics. He squints, shakes his head, tries to tell him to get the fuck away from Oikawa. His words slur together drunkenly. He can barely focus.

The last thing he sees is Oikawa pulling desperately on his restraints, terrified eyes fixated on him, lips forming a shout he can’t hear, before everything goes black.

 

* * *

 

The first thought that comes to Iwaizumi when he wakes up is that he’s no longer cuffed.

He groans. His whole body aches, but the pain is mostly focused in his wrists and head. Carefully, he lifts his head. He’s laying on his bed, sprawled out and taking up the majority of the space. The bed feels soft beneath him, although there’s something less soft under his hand. He sits up, picks up the large, fat envelope left tucked beneath his fingers. There’s no writing, it’s not sealed – he flips it open and tips out the contents.

He doesn’t want to guess how many photographs fall out onto the bed. There are so many – most land face down, and he leaves them. The ones that land face up are difficult enough to look at.

Oikawa, distraught, sobbing, eyes shut tight.

Oikawa, tense, frozen, as a gun caresses his cheek.

Oikawa, fearful, eyes averted, the gun between his lips.

Iwaizumi looks away, throws the envelope down. Bile rises in the back of his throat. The photographs are slightly blurred – he’s seen enough stills snapped from recordings to know that’s exactly what these are. There’s video out there of this; this abuse, this cruelty, this violation. He hates it – hates it, hates it, hates it, that this video exists and will continue to exist as blackmail, as insurance, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

But then his thoughts turn to what’s most important.

_Where’s Tooru?_

He gets to his feet, quickly, shakily, and almost immediately falls over. He catches himself on the wall, gives himself a moment to steady his body before staggering towards the door. Sunlight streams in through the gap in the curtains. Iwaizumi doesn’t know how long they’ve been gone, how long he’s been knocked out, but all he can think about is Oikawa.

“Tooru!?” His voice is hoarse, rough. It’s barely loud enough to be a shout, but he keeps on calling as he staggers down the hall, banging open doors and checking rooms as he goes. _Where’s Tooru where’s Tooru where’s Tooru where’s_ -

When he gets to the living room, he sees him. He’s laying on his side on the couch, seemingly asleep, arms tucked close to his chest and knees pulled up. He’s still in his pyjamas, dirty and stained, and Iwaizumi can see the bruises above the cuffs of his sleeves. There’s a bruise on his cheek as well, and he’s been a cop long enough to recognise the results of a pistol whip when he sees one. If he looked through the other photos, Iwaizumi’s sure he’d find at least one dedicated to the moment.

He swallows hard, drags himself to the couch - for a moment his vision goes double, but it vanishes quickly, and he ignores both it and the dull throbbing in various parts of his body in favour of dropping to his knees beside Oikawa.

“Tooru,” he says urgently, shaking his shoulder. “Please, baby.”

Oikawa’s brow furrows, and it takes him a long time to blink his eyes open slowly. For a minute he stares, uncomprehending, at the man in front of him. He mumbles sleepily, “Hajime?”

“Tooru, I’m here.”

There’s a pause. Oikawa’s eyes shift from blank to full of fear behind the haze of sleep. Iwaizumi figures he’s been drugged too, and is still suffering the after effects.

“It’s okay,” he says quickly. “He’s gone now. We’re home. It’s over.”

“I-It…” Oikawa’s voice cracks. “It’s over?”

Iwaizumi nods. “It’s over.”

Oikawa pushes himself up and clumsily reaches out. Iwaizumi is already there, holding him, pulling him close and crushing him against his chest as if that could force out all the bad memories.

“Hajime.” His name is a plea. “I thought I… I thought I was gonna die…”

“Shh.” Iwaizumi rubs his back. “You’re gonna be okay. I won’t let anyone hurt you again.”

“I thought he…” Oikawa slurs, shaking. “I thought he killed you, I thought I was alone, Hajime, you didn’t wake up, I was so fucking scared that… that you were dead… you were fucking _dead_ , and he didn’t… he didn’t stop… even when you… he kept… _Hajime_...”

“I will never leave you, Tooru.” Iwaizumi clings to him. “You’re safe now. We both are. You’re gonna be okay.”

As Oikawa squeezes him impossibly tighter, pulls him impossibly closer, Iwaizumi makes plans. He’ll quit his job. They’ll move. They have enough money to get away, start fresh somewhere new - it won’t be a great start, but it doesn’t need to be. It just needs to be an escape for now. They’ll figure the rest out later.

It’s the coward’s way out. It’s letting them win. Iwaizumi knows it, and it grates on his sense of pride. But to keep Oikawa safe? He’ll take the coward’s way out any day.


End file.
